


Quitting Time

by Calliopinot



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Abigail deserves all the good things in the world, Canon-compliant levels of idiocy, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Idiots, Gen, Post-Doomstar Requiem, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, including Remeltdensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 08:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14564574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliopinot/pseuds/Calliopinot
Summary: Five dumb idiots make plans to give Abigail the best birthday of her life. They just don't make them together.





	Quitting Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaijumama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijumama/gifts).



> The second of two fic giveaways, for deathmeowtal on the Tumblrs. She just wanted Abigail to have a good day. The purest, sweetest request I've ever gotten.

 There was a little box on her desk. Wrapped in delicate pink tissue paper joined at the seams with blood-red wax and topped with a hand tied silk bow.

People weren't allowed in her office without her permission. Even the cleaning was done before she left for the night, every night. Too many secrets, of her own and of the band's, that risked exposure.

 _"happy birthday wm"_ scrawled in silver Sharpie, on a Post-It note stuck to the side of the box.

Evidently it wasn't mere "people" who'd snuck in here.

Among them only Toki knew her birthday. They marked the occasion last year with a bag of stale Skittles he begged off one of the less braindead guards. It sent him into diabetic shock, nothing she couldn't handle with the supply of dull needles they’d granted her. Sufficient to deliver his insulin, not sharp enough to pose a threat to their captors.

When he came to he said it was worth it just to see her smile.

But he must have blabbed. She couldn't be mad.

With that same smile she ran her finger along the wax seal. Murderface had wrapped this himself; that much was clear. Despite what the guys always said, Abby knew he had an aesthetic eye and discerning taste, when it was something he cared about. Himself, he did not.

Careful unwrapping revealed a crystal clamshell box, delicately etched to capture and reflect light from hundreds of facets. A beautiful tune played when she opened it, along with a twirling, porcelain ballerina painted to match Abigail's complexion and curly hair.

It took her a minute to recognize the melody. Lesley Gore. "You Don't Own Me."

Abigail was overcome. William Murderface, of all people. She was on the verge of actual tears when a knock sounded on the door, followed promptly by that door swinging open.

"Heeeeyy dere Abbygayle!"

She swiftly closed the music box and slid it, and the wrappings, into a drawer. No evidence.

"Hi Pickles." Perfectly impassive.

"How's it goin?"

"Fine, Pickles. Can I help you with something?"

He made a great show of examining the threshold before inviting himself into the room. He scanned the walls and the floor--not much had changed since Abby moved into this office, save for a lighter coat of paint and less austere furniture. There wasn't time for a full remodel.

Pickles sat himself down in one of those new pieces, a large white armchair opposite Abigail's desk.

"Yeh, you know."

"Do I?"

Pickles's fingers tapped a brutal beat into the arms of the chair. He hadn't been this visibly awkward around her since… well for a while at least. He didn't seem to notice she noticed. He wasn't even making eye contact.

"So. Can I help you with something?" She could barely contain the smirk in that question.

Before Pickles could answer, a chime sounded from one of the six phones that sat in a row on her desk like soldiers awaiting their orders.

She frowned, only slightly, just briefly. The green one. A little unusual.

_hey i kno were not together or whatev but u wanna hv dinner 2nite nbd just come down to dining rm 5pm nbd. It's nathan btw_

It was all she could do to bite back the giggle that threatened the back of her throat. There was still Pickles to attend to.

"Somethin important?" He tried, so desperately, to sound nonchalant.

"No more than this, I suppose." She couldn't contain the smirk this time.

Pickles stood in haste. Did a little stretch. Super casual.

"Nyeh nyeh, yer busy. 'sokay. Hey, uh, why don't we finish this here… caaaahnversation. Later! Let's say 5? Dats quittin time, right?"

Abby wiped the corners of her eyes, silently cursing her inability to keep her shit together. Pickles wasn't picking up on it, though. No surprise there, she thought.

"Technically. Although I've learned there's no such thing as quitting time around here."

Pickles's laugh was too big for the joke.

"AHHHAhaha yea yer right, yer right! Yeh well come ahn down to the dining room then. Five o'clock. Don't be late! Not, uh, not that it matters, ya know, it's just a lil conversation. But."

"OK Pickles. Byeeee."

Pickles knew when he was being dismissed. He turned to leave, but turned back, digging something out of his pocket.

"Oh yeah, hey, dis was outside yer door when I came in."

Abigail accepted a crumpled sheet of notebook paper from the drummer, waiting for him to close the door before she gave it a better look. Closer examination revealed an intricately folded origami crane, made to suffer the fate of suffocating under Pickles's bony ass.

A moment of irritation on behalf of the crushed little bird crossed her brow, before Abigail repeated her daily mantra: _Forgive them, for they know not what they do_. It was the only way to manage, and live with, five fully grown morons.

There were markings on the paper. Colored pencil. She unfolded the crane, anticipating completely what the writing would reveal.

_"Abby Gail. Please comes to dinning room at fives tonite. I have suprise someting for u. Its not Skittles. Dis is Toki."_

She couldn't help but break into an idiot grin. Toki generally had that effect on her, but she was also starting to figure out exactly what was going to happen in the dining room at five o'clock.

Another knock on her door wiped the smile from her face and the origami message into the drawer alongside Murderface's gift.

This visitor had the decency to wait until beckoned.

"Come in."

One of a handful of hooded women, the only Klokateers allowed in her quarters.

"Pardon me milady. Master Skwigelf requests the honor of your company this evening at 5:00."

"Let me guess. Dining room?"

"Um...yes ma'am." The messenger hesitated, hoping for an explanation. Abigail was given to chatting with her phalanx of Gears from time to time. So little estrogen existed in Mordhaus.

"Thank you 7386." Evidently not today.

Abigail reached for one of the six phones, the black one. The smile returned to her face as she typed away.

 

* * *

 

The scene was set. Balloons in every color of the rainbow rigged to shower down from the ceiling as soon as Abby opened the door, just like giant Skittles falling from the sky.

And of course, in the center of the table, a giant bowl of only red, purple, and lime green Skittles – Abby's favorite.

Toki could barely contain his glee. This was the most brilliant idea he'd had since the well-meaning but ill-fated attempt to give the yard wolves a cozy indoor home for the winter. Creatures he loved he spared no measure of attention and care.

He checked his phone. Fifteen minutes before the hour. Should he turn off the lights? Crouch behind a chair and yell "SURPRISE!" That would probably freak her out. Neither of them had done too well lately with the overly unexpected.

Deep in thought, musing his options, Toki didn't notice the heavy metal doorknob turning. He turned around just in time to watch the cascade of balloons drop – onto a head decidedly blonder than Abigail's.

"What de fucks ams dis?"

"What de fucks ams _dis?!_ You ruins my surprise!" Toki's crestfallen visage turned quickly into rage. "Cant's lets me has not'in! Motherfuckin' asshole!"

Skwisgaar was at a loss for words. In his hands was an elegant Sachertorte, selected and designed especially for the (presumably, he hadn't looked to far into it) refined tastes of Abigail Remeltindtdrinc, in honor of her birthday. The most generous and kind thing he'd done—for another person—in years. And here was Toki, interrupting his plans for a mature evening with a cherished colleague with childish decorations and a fucking bowl of little kid candy.

How was he the asshole, exactly?

"Hows am I de asshole, eggsackly?"

Not the question Toki wanted to hear.

 

Loud pops reached his ear from somewhere in the vicinity. Nathan _wanted_ to investigate, he really did, but the tray of champagne and hot lobster bisque wasn't going to precariously balance itself down the hall.

Only as he drew nearer to the dining room did he realise the sounds were emanating from his destination.

"Uhh… what the hell is going on here?"

Toki and Skwisgaar, covered in chocolate ganache and apricot jam, attempting to pull each other's hair out and succeeding only in mashing cake into the roots.

"He started it!" An echo in unison.

"I don’t care who started it, I'm ending it!" Nathan couldn't believe those words came out of his mouth. He surreptitiously checked over his shoulder to see exactly when his father had entered the room.

But the only person he saw there was a little redheaded leprechaun, wearing a goofy grin and carrying a pot of gold. Or, pot.

"And what the hell are _you_ doing here?"

"Dood. I got Abby meetin' me for a lil' heh, birthday bake."

"Uh, no, you don't, because she's meeting me for dinner. You know, just, as friends. Friends having dinner, for her birthday, or whatever."

Pickles was about to tease Nathan for the unmistakable blush that crept across his cheeks, when an angry Swede interjected.

"Nej, you amments! I asks her to comes here and has cake…" His argument trailed off at viewing the remains of the chocolate confection on the smug, crestfallen face of Toki Wartooth.

"Yous ams all ruinings tradition! Mes and Abbygail eats Skittles fors her _fødselsdag_. You fuckins ruins it."

The three assembled metalheads were abashed, if only momentarily. Sad Toki cut them to the core since Last Year. Even Skwisgaar had a hard time being openly hostile to him; he recognized the slip into Norwegian as evidence of their transgression.

A quiet chuckle fortunately, mercifully, stymied any attempt at an apology. All four men, those covered in pastry and those not, turned to the sound, the manager who doubled over in laughter at their collective display.

No one dared speak until she was quite finished.

Wiping away a tear, all she could manage was: "Hey."

All four men, those covered in pasty and those not, attempted to speak at once. I tried to—I wanted to—You see it was my idea to—Fuckins Skwisgaar ams a dick!

Abigail held up a hand and all fell silent. She'd have to remember that trick for later.

"You guys. You did this for me?"

"Ja, we does." Skwisgaar answered. He was the tallest.

"But you didn't coordinate with each other."

"Evidently not." Nathan spoke through clenched teeth.

"So each of you, individually, planned a surprise for me for my birthday?"

"Yeh."

Abby was convulsing again. They would each, all, give her the sun and the moon and the stars, but they'd be lying if they said it wasn't slightly annoying to be laughed at for their genuinely sweet efforts.

But when she looked up, all they saw were tears streaming down her face.

"You did this _for me?_ "

Toki moved forward through the dumbstruck dummies.

"You deserves it, Abbygail. Happy birt'days."

She fell into his hug. None of the other guys begrudged him. But there was still an outstanding problem.

"So, uh. Who's it gonna be?"

"Excuse me?"

Nathan didn't really care to clarify. And yet. "Well which one of us had the best invitation? You had to come down here for one of us, right?"

Abby's convulsions turned back into the joyous kind.

"Not exactly!" she laughed. "I came to tell you, um, all of you, that I really appreciate the offers but, um, I sort of have a date tonight."

"Oh."

Wait.

"A DATE?!"

Shock. Surprise. Confusion. Outrage. Each in his turn, in unison.

Abby's giggles returned to form.

"Yes, a date. And fuck you guys for making me ruin my makeup. I've only got a few minutes before he surfaces."

Pickles perked up. "Oh I kin help ya with dat—wait a minute. Surfaces?"

"Yepthat'srightdon'tworryPicklesI'llfixitinthecardon'twaitup!"

Abby breezed out of the room, leaving four aghast manchildren in her wake.

"Oh, and for the record…" Her head popped back around the doorframe. "William wins. Byee!"

The cacophony of exploding rubber, shouting men, and silver dishware hitting stone that trailed her was as beautiful a song as any rendition of "Happy Birthday To You." She'd be sure to tell Charles all about it later – if her lips aren't too busy.


End file.
